Like this:

Out late in the night she sees only neon, the ice in the tumbler, the glisten of olive in gin.

Discussions around her cover all of the flavors of the human condition.

The man in the wife-beater tee salivates at young flesh on the dance floor.

Mundane observations from the bartender about Kapernaek, the weather, the price of milk in July, keeps heads nodding for another, agreement never required, equal whining for all, defenses fall down to the bottom of the glass.

To the left sits the troupe of bachelorettes, too much skin, too much makeup, sloppy grins. Yet exhuberant dancing, mischievous antics, ribald jokes about cucumbers and pickles and wood keep all entertained.

Across the room sits the young man with his date. They are new to the night, to each other, small sips from tumblers of sugar-ice liqueurs flit between witty comments, innuendo and the audacity to look into each other’s eyes, deeply, with blatant longing. Someone buys them a shot. Then to cope, a double for himself.

She pulls her focus to the table before her. Across the high top are women from her coming of age. Small town women yes, but the ones who had her back when she didn’t know she needed that. These women kept the best of the rules and made new ones to get them through career launches, predicted setbacks, the raising children on farms or in cities, fun times when some were without any partner at all. Yesterday’s road parties rise up to the meet them, memories burning, tinged with regret, but burning wild in the part of the head that stores the most bravado of whatever has passed. Bonfires, beer and big hair. Poison, Bon Jovi and REO. The rhythms and beliefs and the words of the past, slip them into easy conversation, women dabbling in tales, forgotten stories, old town lore.

Who’s sleeping with whom? Who left his wife? When did Charlie start drinking at Double D’s? Get the dirt out of the way and get down to the grit. It isn’t about the consumption of fire, it’s all about the slow death of ignorance, innocence, and what we thought we could be.

How’s Macy with chemo? How’s your husband’s farm? Are you still working at Mulligan’s to keep the coverage you need? There are few answers, a hundred simple confessions, the sips in between the happy white lies. Another beer for the rest, a dirty gin gimlet for one, laughter and photos and hugs. Married happily, not married, never marry warnings, too long married; why is the length of time the gold band covers the naked left finger still the equalizer in 2017?

Shots of Fireball make their way from the men sitting at the rail in the front. Damn bartender makes great tips because he knows all the gal’s names and will share. In a circle they loft the amber liquid, stare into each other’s eyes for few, then raise them up with a clink – not even a nod of thanks to the gentlemen – then a tap on the table top for the ones who aren’t there. The throwback, the set down, the exhale of the heat of the burn and they settle in for another hour of whatever comes out of the mouth. No need for poker faces or tears. The honesty sets in to balance the fears.

She’s the baby in the rock of the cradle, they are the sisters she let set the pace. The steady has fallen this time- it’s her turn, only fair.

I’m glad you are on the pavement…you need some spike heeled boots…they will secure you to the shifting, melting, asphalt of life.Yup. Spiked boots and music.

WHAT- no, not what- WHO are you listening to on the radio? Music is necessary therapy, darling.

CRANK it.

I don’t want to rub in how I’m doing ok -if you are not- but I am ok. Alex is not out of the woods- but there is a way out, and we are finding it and he is going to make it. We’ve been in the hospital about 63 overnights since August. He’s a tough old coot and I’m completely confident it will be beat. Meanwhile- the scrawny guy from Infectious Disease who has an office in the oncology wing has hit on me and the security guard from downstairs and the guy in… the freakin’ hospital is full of people who do not work but spend their days salivating over women in distress.

Typical males? I sure as hell hope not…though I do admit to bringing heat to the floor every fricken day during visiting hours and all the docs are very attentive and like to shake hands with me, and drop in and check on him, etc!

Adventures? Me?

Well, shortly after I sent that touch-base note, I locked in a long-term gig. I’m writing for a travel blog and will adventure to Italy and shop in the market for the most fragrant tomatoes and basil and learn to make that balsamic reduction from a chef I’ve heard is seriously talented. There are wine tastings, and walks to the local spots where the wine is tapped from a barrel of the local grown grape and you can bring your own bottle and fill it right there. Fresh everything. Sunshine and my head will be swirling with that Italian accent and I’ll let myself eat bread. Ha! I have to work on my spin and how I can word all the tastes and flavours. So much research to do. I’m a little nervous!

I’ve been writing a lot. So much inspiration in my days. Check out my my blog. Full of crazy adventures. It is good to be in the city again. I love downtown. Love my loft. Love the shows. Love the shopping. It’s all good. When you are strong and healthy, come stay for a while. I’ll cook for you and take you out to the lounge. You’ll love the music. Unlike anything you’ve heard before.

So, I want you to concentrate on getting yourself in a spot that has a healthy dose of reality, rooted in common sense and keep making good choices…and mostly, laughing, belly laughs if you can. And consider working out…burns in a good way.

Hugs to you and if you need that cross on your forehead, take it. Nothing wrong with submitting to a higher power worthy of your attention…know what I mean?

With love my friend, as only old friends can give,

Ret

Sealed with a lipstick kiss, addressed with a red pen in near-calligraphy script and tucked into the postal box at 3pm on Tuesday.